


The Spy Who Licked Me

by elzierav



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Crack, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hijinks & Shenanigans, How Do I Tag, M/M, Rivals to Lovers, Spice, Spies & Secret Agents, This is pure crack, spicy shenanigans, stupid puns, that might be my most used tag lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26195377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elzierav/pseuds/elzierav
Summary: Exactly what it says on the tin.A seasoned spy (with the spiciest seasoning, thank you very much), Qrow isn't too happy about having to team up with a young Atlesian bootlicker with pretty eyes who's terrible at pretending to be straight. Shenanigans ensue.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi
Comments: 5
Kudos: 20





	The Spy Who Licked Me

The other spy turns to face him, and Qrow can’t tell if it’s the silencer of his gun in those sinfully tight white pants, or if the man’s just really happy to see him. 

But he wants to know. For the sake of the mission, he wants to know.

The garish lights flicker around the room, bouncing off the bright disco ball and the assortment of glass bottles behind the bar, but the spy’s teal eyes stand out in the club’s dim artificial lighting. The music resonates too loudly, swells too boisterously, and the heady scent of alcohol mixed with human sweat and various colognes threaten to give Qrow a headache, but the enemy spy's warm smile is the only thing that matters, calming him, anchoring him.

He knows this guy's his enemy. The way his shapely back sits ramrod straight on the high bar stool to compensate for everything else that looks, well, not so straight about him, the way his muscles bulge like he could pack a mean punch gives it out - this guy's the spy sent by Atlas to secure the target Qrow's been sent after by Oz. This guy, and the two tall ones by the door, and the two tawny ones rather awkwardly lurking around the DJ. Qrow makes a mental note to kiss Summer later for this intel giving him a headstart on his adversaries, she’s an amazing analyst, the best he’s ever worked with.

Qrow knows this guy's the enemy. He's not getting distracted from his target, he's not falling for that gorgeous grin and those deep aqua orbs, he's just doing some reconnaissance.

Know your enemy, or so they say.

"Something for you, sir?" the barman calls out jovially, twirling a metal shaker that glistens under the party lights.

"... Same as his, please," Qrow mutters lamely in his distracted state, nodding toward the drink of the Atlesian spy who'd caught his attention.

"That's the best they got," the stranger comments."Lucky pick, huh?"

Then he winks, and Qrow's heart melts.

Why does Green Eyes also have the most smooth, suave, flirty voice Qrow's ever heard? Why is life never, ever fair? 

Ignoring the dramatic wailings of his mind, Qrow tries to focus on the delicate glass cup in the man's large, deft hand, with mitigated success. The mere thought of the beverage makes Qrow uncomfortable, but he musters a brief look for the sake of acting normal while waiting for his target -  _ their  _ target - to crop up. 

"Martini, shaken, not stirred?" He guesses. 

"With two green olives, one black, and a lemon slice on the side," the other man specifies with an easy smile. "Want a sip?"

If Qrow wants a sip of something, it's definitely not that martini. Who is he kidding, he doesn’t just want a sip, he wants, craves, needs to drown into these breathtaking teal eyes. After all, who needs vodka martinis when one can drown in those pools of sunkissed azure and feel reinvigorated, electrified by the genuine enthusiasm they communicate? Fuck vodka martinis, right?

Expertly, he leans forward on his stool as if to reach for the beverage, but slips on his seat and has to cling to the man's sizable bicep for support, uttering a profusion of half-hearted apologies as a strong, warm hand secured him and gently rests upon his shoulder.

Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, or so they say.

Right now, his enemy is very close. And he even smells nice… right. Reconnaissance. The touch of Qrow's knowing fingers recognises each bulge, each line, each curve of the bicep within his hand. And like a seasoned sailor watching the sea to predict tempests, he can tell how dangerous those arms are. Those guns aren't just for show, and that right fist can pack a mean uppercut. 

Qrow's fingers travel down the map of bulging veins to reach the stranger's palm, exploring the soft skin interspersed with callouses. Clearly, the Atlesian can wield a knife. But also, he's probably held a gun as many times as a toothbrush, and judging by these spotless pearly whites, that's saying something. Narrowing his eyes in focus, Qrow attempts to recall which gun models are consistent with these callouses, how much ammo they can hold, their strengths and weaknesses… yup, reconnaissance kinda stuff. Not at all holding a hot guy's hand and petting it kinda stuff.

"Are you alright?" Green Eyes voices with genuine concern at Qrow's concentrated expression.

"... Yeah. Thanks."

He could pass it off as having had too much to drink. Given the smell of the whole club, nobody would be able to tell.

"I don't believe I've caught your name?" 

His tone is affable now, a sincere twinkle dancing in his breathtaking aqua irises. But Qrow won't let his guard down and reveal such information…

"You caught  _ me _ , sounds good enough," he jokes back with a small smile, eyes flitting down to the stranger's hand still atop his shoulder blade.

A brief chuckle seizes the man's sculptural chest before he announces with confidence:

"Ebi. Clover Ebi."

Nice try, but nope. Nope, Qrow is still not giving out his name. Nope, moving onto the next topic, and quickly…

"Who in their right mind likes black olives?" Qrow wonders aloud as his brain frantically works to identify a new subject.

"Isn’t hatred specifically for black olives kinda racist?" Clover shrugs, and Qrow would give anything to see that again, the way those muscles roll when those shoulders move.

"And the lemon slice, what's it for? Just to look pretty?"

Not that he doesn't already look pretty enough without the lemon, Qrow's mind supplies helpfully.

"When life gives you lemons…" Ebi answers evasively, arching a cocky brow.

Does he know about Qrow? Does he know who he's dealing with? If he does, it only adds more excitement to the game they’re playing. Because it’s absolutely a game, and the game is absolutely on. Part of Qrow’s mind drifts into overdrive as he plans his next move, predicts the enemy’s next move, needs to plan several moves ahead because he doesn’t know when the game will stop, doesn’t want the game to stop… (other parts of him reach overdrive for… other reasons but he does his best to ignore them). 

When life gives you lemon, they say, make lemonade.

He doesn’t really know what he’s doing, not only because he’s already considering multiple moves ahead, but also because it makes next to no fucking sense. But he does it anyway, because the game is on. He bends forward again before the dashing spy’s scrutiny, but these times his teeth close upon the small slice of lemon on the side of the cup, feeling his enemy’s incredulous glare as he meticulously chews on the zest, crushing the pulp between his careful teeth. 

Summer would probably have reprimanded him, telling him her grandma said eating lemons dries your blood or imparting similar wisdom. Raven would scoff, Tai would outright laugh at him. But that doesn’t stop Qrow from slowly masticating the fruit fragment, focusing on the tangy taste at the tip of his tongue, on the acid juice spilling down his lips.

“It’d make fine lemonade… wanna taste?” he utters, because the game is on, and it bestows him with courage he didn’t know he had. 

The game is absolutely on, and the enemy spy knows it full well. He knows it full well as a small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, stretching that adorable cupid’s bow. He knows it full well as he replies with typical Atlesian politeness peppered with a tinge of merciless teasing.

“Very well, sir, I might as well try.”

A million butterflies take flight within Qrow’s stomach as the tip of the stranger’s pink tongue darts out and touches lemon-covered lips. He didn’t realise his lips were that parched, because now he’s thirsting for more as the deft, wet appendage carefully caresses his top lip, sliding in sinfully symmetric ways while applying just enough pressure to make him squirm. He holds his breath as the enemy’s tongue maps his bottom lip, lavishing every fold, every line, every curve. Yup, that’s thorough reconnaissance. Good job, Atlas, on training your agents.

This is a game, and Qrow really, really,  _ really  _ doesn’t want it to end. 

And if the delectable flick of Clover’s tongue is any indication, the other player doesn’t want it to end either.

Qrow wants to close his eyes, but he knows he can’t. Neither of them can, because both of them know they’re on the job, on the lookout for a target. It’s one of the basic rules of the spy job - or at least, Qrow decided so while watching spy flicks as a kid and deciding he wanted to do that job later because spies always get all the action in movies (and all of  _ that _ kind of action too). 

Not that keeping his eyes open helped all that much - for their common target decides to storm in at that very moment, just their luck, with the subtlety of a sledgehammer to the sound of priceless designer heels furiously clicking against the club’s dancefloor, followed by an army of paparazzi camera flashes.

“Is that Winter Schnee?”

The competitive part of Qrow’s mind screams silently in frustration that Clover identified the target first. Because it was all a game, and it just ended. Just their luck.

“Yeah,” Qrow answers before slipping off his bar stool, vanishing as fast as he appeared.


End file.
